The next day, their alarm clock was the van overheating in the early morning sunlight. They attended their toiletry needs and passed around breakfast bars. Murdock took an offered bottle of water but didn't eat. Hannibal studied him carefully, but B.A. distracted him by asking if they were driving back into Arkham for any reason, or on to Kingsport as they had planned last night.

Hannibal had folded the map down to just the areas of the coast they were traveling on, and traced the route again. He consulted Face.

"What do you think? This doesn't have anything helpful on it, like numbered stops, so even though Jones's route passes through Arkham we don't know if he went home again or what. Maybe he just went down to Kingsport. Any indication of what he did in your book?"

With a mouthful of granola, Face shook his head. "Nope. His notes talk about Kingsport, and there's an address, but not when he visited."

"Are we gonna learn anything new if we go back to Arkham?" B.A. asked. "Are we gonna stop at Mr. Smith's place again?"

Face and Hannibal traded glances, and then both shrugged.

"I guess not," Face said.

"Then we'll skip it," B.A. announced.

He turned the ignition key, put the vehicle into gear, and they started off again.


Kingsport wasn't dead, to their relief. It was old but bustling, and although it didn't have a University to draw people in, it also didn't have the same odd destitute air that Arkham gave off. At least people here walked the streets. It could have been any other New England seaport town they passed through, if the four of them hadn't the intimate knowledge of each of the city's cemeteries, courtesy of Mr. Jones's map.

The address he'd listed in the margins of the book wasn't a cemetery, to their surprise. It was to a house on Water Street, which, they saw as they drove passed, had a "For Lease" sign in a window. Face copied the phone number on it, and called the realtor.

As luck would have it, they were able to not only find the rental Jones had used, but were able to lease it as well.

It was a rambling thing, with two staircases—one for guests, one for servants—a dumb waiter, a formal parlor, and a bedroom for each of them, plus an extra. It came fully furnished, and Face was able to persuade the rental company to let them have a month-by-month contract.

After a dingy motel and a cramped night in the van, it was nice to have a place to spread out. Once they had claimed their rooms and unloaded the van, Hannibal assigned tasks to each of them. Face had mentioned several places that Jones had written of in his defaced book; they would split the difference, go in pairs, and check them out.

Both Face and Murdock looked upset by the plan, but for different reasons. Murdock just continued to look nauseous and withdrawn; Face exuded distain at the order. He muttered something insolent about not finishing the first job Hannibal insisted on—translate that book!—and that he'd prefer to just wrap it up.

Murdock, who had started in on how he wouldn't be any good at digging up information because he had a headache, abruptly changed his mind when Face mentioned just staying behind in the house as well.

There were times to go along with Murdock, and times to just be blunt. Although he wanted to address Face's sudden obsession with that book, Hannibal decided to deal with his pilot's lack of participation first.

"What is going on, Murdock?" he asked directly.

Usually he got at least some answer. This time it was still vague.

"Nothing. I don't feel well," Murdock replied evasively. "Maybe the sea air . . .? I'm a Texas boy, Lone Star born and raised, and the salt is wreaking havoc on my longhorn-filled sensibilities . . ."

Hannibal watched Murdock shift minutely, uncomfortably, under his gaze. The pilot's eyes never rested in one spot too long, unless it was behind closed eyelids. Hannibal realized Murdock's blinks were half a second too long, which was disconcerting. He didn't know if it was a symptom of some type of mental breakdown, or a conscious effort to block things out.

"Fine," he sighed. "You don't have to come with me. We're going to need food, though, so I'll expect you to at least get to the grocery for us. Understood?"

Murdock nodded quickly, still not meeting his eyes.

Hannibal turned to Face. "And you," he said, in a sharper tone than what he'd used with Murdock. "That book isn't that long. You've been working on it for over a day now. I'd expect you to have it done."

Face scowled. "I already told you it isn't that easy, Hannibal. Yeah, it's in French. But it's archaic. It's written in such out-of-date French that I have to go over it multiple times to make sure I'm getting the translation right. It's taking awhile because it's difficult. You want some half-assed piece of work? I'll be done right now. You want it done right—give me some fucking time."

He paused and took a breath, then finished with a snotty, "You want it done quicker, make Murdock to do it. You know he's best with languages anyway."

Murdock ducked and stumbled backwards like someone took a swing at him. The movement startled the other three.

"Crazy?" B.A. said in a softer, more concerned voice than typically directed at the pilot.

Murdock shook his head, and reached up to thread his fingers through his hair. His cap was pushed off his head as he tightened his grip.

Face's tone and attitude changed immediately, and he stepped closer to his friend. "Murdock, hey, buddy—"

"I won't read that book!" Murdock shouted. "I won't read it—you can't make me!"

"Buddy—"

Face moved to slip an arm around him, to bring him back down.

"Get it away from me! Get it away from me!" Murdock continued, pulling at his hair.

Face hurriedly stepped away again, but remained ready to intervene if the pilot made a move to slam his head against anything. He sensed that B.A. and Hannibal were ready for that too.

"I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't—"

"Okay, okay," Face soothed. "You won't! The book isn't even here—I left it up in my bedroom. Okay? Murdock, look at me. Look at me!"

Slowly, with his mouth still forming the words, Murdock lifted his gaze to Face's. Face took the chance to step forward once more, and took another chance in taking the pilot's shoulders tightly.

"You don't have to read the book," he assured. "I'm sorry I said that."

He was too, even if his friend's reaction was unexpected and bizarre.

"Forgive me?"

Murdock stuttered to a voiceless stop of his litany and his eyes held Face's for a moment, then he dropped them again and nodded. Face carefully worked Murdock's fingers free of his own hair, and B.A. scooped up his baseball cap and handed it back.


Author's Note: First and foremost thanks to every single reader who has stuck with me so far on this out-there crossover. I truly appreciate each and every one of you, especially if you're taking the chance and reading something with no prior knowledge to the 'weird fiction' genre that H.P. Lovecraft helped father.

Second, because this is a horror fic and the Hallowe'en season is slouching ever closer, my goal is to post a section of this story per day for the month of October. To do this, however, some of the chapters will be short. Really short; like drabble short. I have tried to break them into to pieces that are naturally separate, so there may be a mirco-chapter of only one characters actions/thoughts.

Third (and second most important after the THANK YOU), once again, because of its horror nature, I want to remind folks that bad stuff is coming up. BAD stuff is coming up. Dear Mr. Lovecraft never wrote profanity or extreme violence or anything sexual. However, because this is 2011 and the society we live in has amped up everything, this fic does contain those three subjects. Also, I warn that this is a death fic. Giving warning like this goes against my knee-jerk reaction of "surprise!", but I think due to this fic's nature readers should have some sense of what to expect.

Thank you from the bottom of my little heart for taking the time to read my story. I would bake you all pots de creme if I could send them in the mail!